Waiting for the Dawn
by Serenswyrd
Summary: 2012 Secret Santa for thatladyjazz - America arranges a visit to London during the Blitz.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Waiting for the Dawn

**Warning:** Follows my head canon for the time period, so somewhat US-UK UST in nature, at least overtly._  
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**Disclaimer_:_** Serenswyrd is not a penname for Hidekaz Himaruya. _I own nothing._

**A/N:** First fic ever, so my apologies in advance. (*ﾉ∀≦*)

Special thanks to Liete for her beta help!_  
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**-x-**

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America leaned over the heavy oak desk, his hands gripping its sides tightly.

"_What do you mean you can't tell me where he is_?"

The impeccably uniformed officer seated behind it returned his glare with a polite but pointedly cool smile. His eyes flicked, unimpressed, at the nation's civilian clothes and then leveled again. "I mean exactly what I said, sir. That's classified information."

America blinked, incredulous, and bent closer, sparing a quick glance at the man's nameplate. "Lieutenant Cooper, do you have any idea who I am?"

Cooper didn't retreat an inch, and America found himself fighting the urge to toss the desk aside to deal with matters more directly. "I assure you, sir," his smile widened a fraction, as if he could taste the nation's impotent rage. "As Mr. Kirkland's personal assistant, I know exactly you are."

"Then tell me," America said, each word slow and careful, "where he is."

"That's simply not possible." He spread his hands in a gesture of mock helplessness. "I'm afraid my orders are absolute. They come from the very top."

America's grip tightened further, the wood under his fingers beginning to groan in protest. This smug little bastard was enjoying himself. "I know exactly where your orders come from," he growled. "I know who gives them to you. And if you don't want a career mucking out latrines the _goddamn minute_ I'm no longer a civilian, you'll tell me where I can find him!"

Cooper's smile vanished instantly at that, his eyes blazing as they locked with America's. "If I could trade in my bars for your active participation, _sir_," he bit out, each word as crisply edged as his uniform, "they would be on this table right now." He let the words sink in, gaze still burning. "Until then, as I said, I have my orders."

America opened his mouth and then closed it. After a long, uncomfortable moment, he eased his grip and straightened, Cooper's eyes still fixed on his. Finally, he lifted a hand to rub at the warmth creeping up his collar. "Yeah. Well." He looked away, running the hand through his hair. "You and me both, then."

The lieutenant's glare softened slightly, though his posture remained military stiff. "For what it's worth, sir, I'm sorry I can't be more help."

"Hah." America rocked back on his heels with a snort. "I'm pretty sure that's my line." He gave a half-hearted salute as he turned for the door. "I'm sorry to take your time, Lieutenant." America stepped briskly into the hall before the man could give a reply, nearly colliding with a blessedly familiar figure coming in the other direction, a thick sheaf of papers tucked against her matronly hip. America offered up a silent, fervent prayer of thanks for his luck.

"Margie!"

The woman's eyes went wide. "Alfred! What are you- oh!" Her question was cut short with a gasp as the nation seized her waist, lifting her high in the air as he spun. By the time he set her down again, a small blizzard of paper was fluttering to rest and her gasp had become breathless laughter.

"Alfred," she gasped, still laughing. She gave his cheek a fond, shaky pat. "Heaven's sake, boy."

America leaned back to give her a wide grin, his hands still around her waist. "What? You used to love that!"

"When I was four!" Margaret gave the cheek a quick pinch and pushed out of his grasp. "Goodness lad, it's been ages. You haven't changed a bit."

"Clean livin'." America winked. He bent to sweep the scattered papers into a loose pile and then took her by the arm, starting down the hall in the direction she'd been heading. "Listen Margie," he began, voice low and conspiratorial. "I could use your help. I need to find England, and Cooper there—" He jerked his head back toward the lieutenant's office. "—is about as useful as a bag of badgers. And twice as nasty."

"George?" Margaret looked shocked. "Oh, no. He's a sweet boy, once you get to know him." Her surprise eased into a knowing smile as America's frown deepened. "Can't say I'd be surprised if you two got off on the wrong foot, though. I've always suspected Mr. Kirkland keeps him close because he reminds him of someone."

America's pace faltered for a moment, his expression darkening as he felt heat creeping up his neck again. "That smug little brat?" He finally sputtered. "I was- _I am_- nothing like that."

"Of course not, dear." Margaret patted his arm kindly. "I don't believe anyone said you were."

America felt his flush complete and ducked his head, hoping his burning ears weren't as obvious as they felt. God help him, it was like the old man personally trained every member of his staff in the art of verbal warfare. It was exhausting.

"It's not like I was actually going to say anything to England anyway," he grumbled. "If he knew some kid had managed to get under my skin, I'd probably have to deal with Major-General Cooper the next time around."

Margaret chuckled an agreement, coming up short as the hall opened into the office's entryway. She tilted her head toward the exit expectantly.

America took a deep breath and tried again. "Look, I don't have long." He leaned in, keeping his voice low. "You know as well as I do that I'm not supposed to be here. I just want to see him before I have to leave. It's-" his gazed flickered to the window as he groped for an adequate word. "Well Christ, Margie. It looks like hell out there."

A pang of anxiety twisted through him as Margaret looked away, her smile faltering for the first time. "It hasn't been easy," she murmured. She glanced up to catch the nation's eye again. "But he's all right, Alfred. Honestly. He's in every morning like clockwork and holding up just fine. You know I'd tell you the truth if he weren't."

America rolled his eyes. "I don't need the stiff upper lip speech, Margie. I read the propaganda sheets. I just…" He faltered, uncertain where he'd intended the sentence to take him. "I need to…"

She gave his arm a quick squeeze. "I know, dear. I do. Now, if I had a mind to be helpful and still keep to the letter of my orders," she said carefully, "I might point out that your brother's been around a fair bit lately."

"Well, sure." America frowned. "Of course he has, but…" His eyes went wide. "Oh. Margie!" He swooped in to seize the woman's waist again, but was dodged with a quick side-step.

"Steady there, soldier," she chided, laughing. "Once a day is more than enough for these old bones." She tucked a loose gray curl behind her ear and gave him a fond smile. "I'm afraid I have quite a lot of work waiting, so I'll have to leave the rest to you. But it was lovely to see you again, Alfred."

America beamed back. "You too." He darted in for a hug before the woman could dodge or protest. "You take care, Miss Margie. Keep an eye on the old man. Don't let him work too hard."

Margaret drew back with a laugh. "God himself couldn't stop Arthur Kirkland. You know that." She took his hand to give it a final squeeze. "He'll be glad to see you, Alfred," she said gently. "Don't let him tell you otherwise."

America swallowed around a sudden tightness in his throat. "Yes ma'am." He held on to his smile, hoping it looked more confident than it felt. "He'd be the first to tell you, I stopped listening a long time ago." He gave her another quick wink, turning before his face could betray him, and stepped out onto the streets of London.


	2. Chapter 2

Ten city blocks and five dead phone booths later, his steady stream of cursing growing increasingly creative, America finally picked up a receiver to find a dial tone. _Hallelujah_. He leaned against the inside of the booth, propping his gift tin against his hip to fish a baffling assortment of British change from his pocket.

Canada's voice was tense and clipped when the call was finally transferred through Wittering.

"Squadron Leader Matthew Williams."

"_Mattie_!" America crowed cheerfully. "How's my favorite brother?"

"Jesus. _Al_." There was distinct relief in the snort on the other end of the line, and America congratulated himself at being halfway to a favor. "What do you need?"

"Aw, c'mon." He huffed into the receiver, putting on his most wounded tone. "Can't a guy call just to see how you're doing?"

Canada groaned, but he could hear the smile in it. "No, you can't. Mostly because I don't think you never have." There was a brief pause, and his voice turned worried. "Is something wrong?"

America forced a hearty laugh. "No, I'm fine! Just fine. Everything's fine. I was in the area, though, and thought I'd stop by to see the old man."

Crackling silence filled the line.

America waited, scuffing at the baseboard of the phone booth with his shoe.

"Mattie?" he finally ventured. "…you still there?"

"You're in London." Canada's voice was barely audible. "Right now."

"Uh huh."

"Al, you_ UTTER FUCKING MORON_." America winced and tilted the receiver slightly away from his head. "Do you not watch the news? Listen to the radio? Get the hell _out of there_."

"Jesus, Mattie." America cradled the phone against his shoulder again as he rolled his eyes. "It's fine. It's not like I'm the only one here."

Another strangled expletive was cut short. "Al, England doesn't have a _choice_. _You do_. And in case I need to point out the blindingly obvious, you wouldn't be doing either one of us any favors by getting hurt, or God help us, incapacitated-"

"Hey!" America cut in, his voice sounding petulant even in his own ears. "Come on. Give me a little credit, would you? There's nothing that kraut could drop on me that'd keep me down for long."

"You're a _non-combatant_, Al," Canada snapped back. "You're not even supposed to _be there_. I'll slap a maple leaf on every warm body you send my way, but we're going to need more than that, and we're going to need it soon. How are the headlines going to read if spending a single day overseas ends with you in hospice for a week? That'd have them lining up outside the recruitment offices then, eh? Step right up! Be the next to test your luck in London!"

America squeezed his eyes shut, pressing at them with the heel of his hand until white sparks began to flare behind the lids. He hated how goddamn reasonable Canada could make things sound. "I know." He growled. He leaned back against the wall of the phone booth. "I know, all right? Christ, Mattie. I didn't come out here to swim the Channel with a grenade in my teeth. I hitched a quick ride over with the provisions guys, and I have a flight out first thing tomorrow. I'll be back in DC by lunch." He ran a finger over the phone booth glass, idly tracing the outline of a shattered building beyond. "Safe and sound." The edge blurred into a greasy smudge and he frowned, wiping it crisp with the sleeve of his jacket.

"That's still where you can do the most good, Al."

"Right," America snapped back. "Yes. But I'm here now."

"Calling ahead wouldn't have been such a bad idea."

America gave a snort, scowling down at the tin tucked against his hip. "C'mon. You know what he'd say to that." He pushed the thought aside, spinning the box between his hands, and brightened a bit. "And besides, what kind of surprise would it be if I did?"

Canada's huff came over the line in a crackle of static. "I suppose know you both better than that." There was silence, then a defeated sigh. "You know what- fine. But this is your funeral, Al. I assume he's already left the office, since you're calling me." America grunted an affirmative. "So he'll be holed up for the night." There was another short burst of static and the sound of papers shuffling. "Hey, do you have a pen on you? This is going to be a little tricky. They don't call it the Labyrinth for nothing."

America closed his eyes and concentrated. "Pen. Yeah. Right here. Hit me."

"All right. First thing you need to do is find the nearest storm drain."


	3. Chapter 3

England surveyed his alcove with a critical eye and nodded, satisfied. _It was getting almost cozy_, he decided thoughtfully. Much of the makeshift room was starting to take on the feel of something permanent. His cot was neatly made, its woolen blanket tucked in with smart military corners. He'd managed to bring down a chair a few weeks ago as well, and a small bedside table for writing. A kerosene stove lay on the far side of the room, its burner just large enough to accommodate the kettle that topped it. A series of nights spent in the small space had spawned a rather large stack of books, which had begun to lean a bit under its own weight. Useful things, he'd discovered, when he needed to be distracted. He skimmed a finger along their spines. Shakespeare. Dickens. More than a few from Doyle. He pinked a bit, sniffing defensively at no one in particular.

Turning his attention to matters at hand, he seated himself and began to check off a list of the night's necessities. Clean gauze. Antiseptic. Kerosene. Fresh batteries for the radio. A set of bedclothes and two hand cloths, neatly wrapped in a large handkerchief. A large thermos of water. A tin of tea. He eyed the last item skeptically, giving the box an experimental shake. The faint, loose sound made his heart sink. There would be enough for tonight. If he added enough water, it might last the week.

_Add enough and you can make it last a year_, a dark voice suggested in the back of his mind. _At some point, you'd have to admit you're drinking hot water_.

_Daft._ He pushed the tin back in its place with a scowl._ Completely daft. Though if the state of the world were any indication_, he mused, _a certain degree of madness had become the new standard._

England dropped heavily on his cot and lifted a book from the stack, skimming a few sentences before letting it fall again. He didn't need it yet, and wouldn't for another few hours if Germany kept to the schedule he'd been following for weeks. He smiled bitterly at the thought. Germans and their bloody damn timetables. He could probably set his watch by the raid sirens.

England rolled onto his back and let his eyes close for a moment, feeling the heavy pull of sleep sucking at him almost instantly. Christ, he was tired. Tired in a way he was certain he'd ever felt before this bloody fucking war. Tired enough that it ached. Over the last few weeks, this persistent weariness had deepened until it felt like it reached into his very bones.

_And yet. _

England's eyes snapped open and narrowed. He glared at the brick ceiling for a long moment. _And yet._

England clenched his teeth and forced himself to his feet, exchanging his uniform for proper bedclothes with stiff, mechanical motions. He folded each article carefully, setting the lot in a neat stack at the foot of the bed. He reviewed the provision list one more time, turning the lantern as low as it would go to conserve fuel. Then, with another curt nod, he allowed himself to sink back into his cot and the blessed oblivion of sleep.

_Carroll had the right of it, after all. No matter how mad the world might be, there was still a proper way to do things. _


	4. Chapter 4

America breathed out a soft curse as he rounded the corner, flicking off his flashlight. Canada had been as good as his word.

Feeling strangely like an intruder, the nation crept carefully into the dim glow of England's lantern, easing a book from the chair beside his cot before slowly lowering himself in its place. He held his breath for a tense moment, straining to be certain England's breathing was still slow and deep. He was in the clear. He sagged then, letting his head rest heavily between in his hands as he took in England's sleeping figure. He'd prepared himself for this, knowing logically that rationing had been in effect for years, but it was undeniably different to see the result with his own eyes. The thin olive blanket did little to disguise the slightness of the form beneath it. England lay curled toward the far wall, shielding himself from the faint light as he slept. America shivered as he noted the sharp ridge of his spine as it disappeared beneath his bedclothes.

_Tea_. America groaned internally, suddenly disgusted with himself. He should have brought eggs. Meat. A goddamn ten course meal. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Not that England would have taken any of it. Eating was a luxury for their kind, not a necessity, and clearly one that England had been forgoing in favor of his citizens for some time. America knew precisely what would happen to food left in his care, but couldn't help starting a mental inventory for next time. At the very least, England might be forced to eat something while he was there.

He was startled from the thought when the other nation suddenly shifted, rolling onto his back with a sigh. America froze instinctively, staying utterly still until England's breathing slowed again. The nation's face was visible in the dim light now, the effects of rationing as evident in the sharpness of his features as the rest of his frame. America frowned as he noted the dark skin beneath his eyes. England's expression had a slightly anxious edge even in sleep, a line between his heavy brows that wouldn't quite ease into submission. America rubbed his hands together, fighting the urge to try to smooth it under his fingers. This rest would be short enough. Every moment of sleep, uneasy or not, was precious.

America forced himself to look away, eyes darting around the room for something to keep him occupied. He picked up a book, turned it over in his hands, and just as quickly set it back down. He glanced through England's provisions list, then read it again. He considered counting bricks on the far wall. Finally he leaned back into the chair with a sigh, his eyes coming to rest on the thin, pale hand at England's side.

_It was a weird saying_, he thought distractedly, _to know something like you know the back of your own hand_. America spread the fingers of his left in front of him, eyeing it critically. He supposed he'd just never paid enough attention. Broad. Tan. Even the callouses weren't particularly remarkable. He couldn't have picked it out from a dozen Midwest farm boys.

He closed his eyes quickly, before they could be drawn back to the figure in front of him. _A weird saying._

Behind closed lids, the sudden rush of images came unbidden: a soft palm testing his forehead for fever, slim fingers curled around his own as they traced and retraced the loops of the alphabet, a gentle touch, brushing tears from his face and grit from a skinned knee. His own small hands reaching out to seize a pale one between thumb and palm, pulling it close to rub his cheek against the cool skin.

America swallowed thickly and opened his eyes again, memory proving to be the more treacherous option. He glanced at his watch. Sleep, maybe. It was worth an attempt—anything to kill time. He folded an arm to cradle his head against the table. The other hovered for a long moment, fingers curling and uncurling in midair as he fought with himself.

Finally he tucked his head into the crook of his arm, unable to watch as he gingerly covered England's hand with his own.

And America slept.


	5. Chapter 5

A loud grating snore sawed its way through England's consciousness.

_Bloody hell._

He groaned in protest and clung to the fraying edges of sleep, but the sound was relentless. _Goddamn bloody fucking bloody HELL._ England cracked an eye open and rolled it towards the source. Dim light picked out a gleam of golden hair and the glint of a pair of glasses, the latter resting atop a large and gorgeously familiar tin.

His rude awakening was immediately forgotten. _Miraculous. _ England felt his spirits rise in a surge of drowsy fondness. _Oh that thoughtful, thoughtful boy._ He stretched lazily, reaching over to tousle the other nation awake. _Bit peculiar, though_. He would have sworn that last he'd heard, Matthew was-

England's hand froze inches away from its target, the significance of a single unruly tuft of hair sending a cold shock down his spine. He was fully awake in the next instant, taking in the slightly-too-broad shoulders, the angular frame of the glasses, the young man's carelessly rumpled clothing. _Not Matthew._

England snatched his hand back, unconsciously twisting it in his blanket to stop the strange, faint tingling in his fingers. "Bloody hell," he whispered hotly. His eyes darted to the watch at his bedside. 7:03. _Half an hour at most. Half an hour until-_

"**_America_**," he snapped.

The snore cut out mid-rumble as the younger nation jerked to attention. He blinked rapidly, confusion melting to a sleepy grin as his gaze finally fell on England. "Hey! You're awake." He patted the table beside him, absently groping for his glasses. He settled them in place, his smile slipping a bit as the older nation's expression came into focus.

England gathered up as much dignity as a man in his bedclothes possibly could- blanket clenched to his chest, spine ramrod straight.

"What," he asked, keeping his voice carefully level, "are you doing here?"

A raw look flickered across the other nation's features, and he bit back the urge to soften his question. America recovered quickly though, smile wide as he gestured hopefully at the tin of tea. "Just passing through. Figured you could use a little pick-me-up."

England stared for a long moment, his eyes flicking from America to the tin, then back to America. Finally he passed a hand over his face and let it fall into his lap. "Thank you," he said carefully. "That was very thoughtful, but's nearly dark now. You have to get to shelter."

America leaned back to study the other nation, his confusion evident. "Shelter," he echoed. He raised his hands to indicate the tunnel around them. "What's this?"

England shot him an irritated look. "Not here. I'll be fine… I _am_ fine," he corrected. "Look, you-" he hunted for the right words, words that would explain how much more exciting and heroic it would be to be somewhere else—_anywhere else_. His mind scrabbled anxiously for a few moments and came up blank. "You… simply have to go," he finished awkwardly.

The hurt in the boy's eyes lingered this time, almost an accusation. England forced himself not to look away as the silence stretched uncomfortably. Finally, America dropped his eyes to the tin in his hands, rolling it between them like a poker chip. "You let Mattie stay," he said quietly.

_Matthew. Of course._ England hadn't had time to consider how the boy had managed to find him, but the piece slid neatly into place. Canada's presence had been a necessary precaution, not a privilege, during those first nights of agony and darkness. He grimaced in recollection. "We didn't know what to expect, when it began. I have a system now. Everything I need, right here. I'll be fine."

"I know." America lifted his head quickly, and England realized with a cold clench that the boy's eyes were catching far too much of the dim light. "I know you will. So there's no reason for me to go, England. There isn't." England schooled his features carefully as America's voice began to thicken, taking on a strained edge. "There's no…" he stumbled, eyes searching England's as if he could supply the explanation that wouldn't come. "…there's no point in me being up there_,_" he finished uncertainly. Finding nothing helpful in England's reaction, America dropped his gaze again, brows drawing together as if he were trying to puzzle out what he'd meant to say.

_Oh don't. _England pressed his eyes shut. _Don't_.

_How easy it would be to willfully misunderstand, to read more than a child's words intended._

"America." The boy did not look up, stubbornly continuing to twist the tin between his hands. England softened his tone as much as he dared. "I know you mean well. I do. But I'm neither a child nor a doddering old man. I don't need coddling, and I don't need a nursemaid. This is nothing I haven't seen before."

"I never said you did," America insisted. He glared harder at the tin in his hands. "But I've been up there, England." He looked up, eyes flashing a challenge. "In London. No one's seen anything like this before."

England glared back. "On the contrary," he countered sharply, "I have. For more than 38 nights running, I've seen exactly that." He raised a hand before America could object. "I assure you, I will be perfectly fine, but we're running out of time. You _must_ go."

America opened his mouth as if to argue, but before he could make a sound, his eyes turned distant—an odd look passing over his face. England watched cautiously, trying to place the expression as the silence stretched. Finally, he cleared his throat and the other nation jumped. As the boy's eyes refocused on his, the cold in England's gut clenched tighter. That was a look he knew.

"No," America said simply.

England stared.

"You can't force me to go." The young nation's voice was gaining strength as he spoke, as if he were convincing himself with his own argument. "Not any more than Franklin can force me to stay."

"America." England steeled himself against the defiant flash in the other nation's eyes, the determined set of his jaw. Unwelcome memories had begun to stir in a dark corner of his mind, and he had no time for that now. "There's no bed for you here. No food," he pressed. "I don't even have enough water to wash up. There's barely enough for tea."

"Don't need it." America smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes. "This chair's just fine. It's the middle of the afternoon in Washington DC, I just had a fantastic nap, and I am-" He stabbed at the table with a finger for emphasis. "Not." _Tap_. "Going." _Tap_. "Anywhere."

For a desperate moment, England pondered making a break for it himself. Bandages, tea, and a good soothing book suddenly didn't seem nearly as important as being as far away as possible from the other nation when darkness fell. A surge of helpless irritation set his teeth on edge. "For Christ's sake, America," he snapped. "You're not a child anymore."

He knew he'd chosen the wrong words as soon as they left his mouth. A spark of triumph leapt in the other nation's eyes. "That's right." America's smile warmed to become the real thing. "I'm not."

Cursing silently, England reached for the last weapon in his arsenal.

"_Alfred_."

The name hung in the air. America's smile fell instantly, his expression turning intent and serious in a way that looked oddly foreign on his youthful face. "Alfred," England repeated carefully. 'Listen to me."

America ducked his head in a quick nod.

"You have to go."

He gave the faintest shake.

"You must."

Shake, shake.

"_Why?" _England asked.

Silence.

"Alfred. _Why_?"

There was a long pause as the younger nation struggled.

"…_fire_," America finally managed. His voice was hardly a whisper.

England's blood turned to ice. He stared down at the blanket in his hands. _Ah. There it was._

The moment stretched.

"So." England said, quietly. "You do remember."

America was silent.

England forced his twisting fingers to still, even as his mind continued to churn violently. _That couldn't be why he'd really come. Surely. _England had known the boy to be thoughtless, yes, but not cruel. _Never cruel. _He tried to force himself to look up, to read what he could in America's expression, and found he simply couldn't. To bring that up now, after decades of silence, each of them content to pretend it had never happened… England's knuckles began to turn white where they gripped the blanket. What other reason could he have? Was this what he had come to see? London burning as Washington had? England suffering as he had? He felt a wave of cold fury rising within him and welcomed it. This he knew. This, he could use. England seized on the anger, let it stiffen his resolve until he could raise his head.

When he did, however, he found the other nation wasn't looking at him at all. America had turned aside, his eyes distant and uncharacteristically thoughtful.

"No."

If England hadn't seen his lips move, he might not have realized America had spoken at all. "Not really. I don't remember." His voice was still quiet, but audible now. "They told me about it afterward. Said it was like a fever that wouldn't break." He paused for a long moment, and then gave a soft, breathy laugh. "Apparently I rambled about all kinds of things. Crazy things. But at the time, I don't…" His voice trailed off as the smile faded. "I never really knew what was happening."

America's gaze pulled back into focus, and he turned to give England a weak grin. "That's why. I didn't know who to ask, who else would understand. But that's why. I thought that might be how it always is, when your capital burns. I thought you might…" America stopped, clearly struggling again. His throat moved convulsively.

"I thought…" he tried again. "You might not want to be alone."

England felt the last of his anger ebb, replaced by a horribly hollow, shaky feeling. America, bloody fool that he was, had never been particularly good at masking his expression. The look on his face now was achingly vulnerable. It was the look, England realized dizzily, of a child who knew he was about to be struck, and had decided he wasn't going to flinch.

He stared back hard. America still would not look away.

_No choice._ England eased the blanket from his hands with a conscious effort, carefully flexing fingers that had been clenched too tightly for too long. _It would be fine. _He released a shaky breath._ It would have to be._

He swallowed, unsure whether he could trust his voice. "All right," he said softly.

America's eyes widened a fraction, his girded expression shifting into something far more fragile. England acknowledged the unspoken question with a nod, his breath coming faster than it should. "Stay then."

A slow smile began to spread on the boy's face. As England watched, it built until it was radiant and unstoppable and dazzlingly warm. _Oh_. England thought faintly. _Oh._ He gathered himself together, doing his best to put a bit of steel back in his tone. "But if you do, you're going to make yourself useful. Understood?"

America simply shone. His smile couldn't get any wider and spilled over in a laugh of transparent joy. The sound made England's lips twitch in response, despite his best efforts to maintain a stern glare. "Okay. Okay, England. Yes. Okay." He was on his feet in an instant. "Tell me what needs to be done."

England blinked. "Ah. Yes," he said slowly. "Right." He felt a quick stab of regret for all his careful preparation. In actuality, there was precious little left to do. He mentally reviewed the items on his list in quick succession, casting about for something to keep America occupied and his own thoughts well clear of the boy's response.

_There's no meaning in it, you daft old coot. You know how he is_. _Always the center of attention, never wanting to be left out, and now suddenly with this mess, trapped on the sidelines. You gave him the chance to swoop in and be the bloody hero of the day, is all. _

_Right._ England affirmed. _ So then. _

He pointed to a small basin on the corner of the table. "That'll need to be filled with water. You should find two hand towels wrapped in the handkerchief there. When the fire…" His mind stumbled briefly on the word. "…when the fire comes, it's as you've said: much like a human fever. Cold compresses help a bit." America nodded, already moving. "I have found that I lose a bit of time when it's at its worst. No hallucinations or delirium, however." He frowned, suddenly apprehensive. "None that Matthew mentioned," he amended.

"_Oh_." England could hear surprise in America's voice. "Good! That's good," he rushed on, trying to mask the quick pause. "It must have been my age." He flashed England a self-deprecating grin, recapping the thermos with a quick twist. "Barney wouldn't let me live that down for _years,_ you know. Bastard knew it drove me crazy. I thought he was pulling my leg at first, but—" America cut himself short with a laugh, waving his hand as if to push the memory aside. "Things he couldn't have known, right?"

England noted curiously that the tips of the boy's ears had turned a deep pink. He reached out to take the thermos, a soft, cautious thing starting to stir in a corner of his mind he hadn't dared examine in a very long time. _Maybe this really would be all right. _England gave the thought an experimental prod and felt something deep inside him tense, instantly wary, at the warm ache that answered. _Ah._ He set his jaw, giving a soft, derisive snort. _Some fools never learn. _

He set the kettle on the kerosene burner and began to pour, raising the thermos to America with a questioning look.

The boy huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Wasted on me, you know that."

"Better than anyone, I should think." England's smile twisted slightly. "Still, manners dictate." He sat back to wait for the water to boil, turning the fresh tin over in his hands. "You realize this is gross bribery, don't you?"

America grinned. "Blame my crude upbringing. Some stubborn old codger drilled it into me that guests should never arrive empty handed."

England hummed to himself as he cracked the lid open. He took a deep breath, debating, for a moment, the wisdom of forgoing actual tea to being able to breathe the scent as much as he liked. "Sounds like a very wise man."

"Eh." America's smile softened as he watched England bury his nose in the tin. "He was all right."

England flicked a quick glance upward. America was leaning against the table with one leg over the other, arms crossed loosely against his chest, the picture of casual innocence. He weighed his options and decided on a faint scowl in case the boy was mocking him. It was strangely difficult to maintain the expression with the aroma of good black tea in the air, however, and he gave it up completely as the kettle started to keen. His spoon hovered indecisively over the open tin for a second, and then measured out two heaping spoonfuls, banishing the spectre of inevitable remorse from his mind.

_If there were ever a compelling argument for a good strong cuppa_, he argued with his future self, _tonight would be it_.

Once it had steeped properly, England inhaled deeply and took a careful sip, eyes sliding closed as the warm liquid spread over his tongue. _Oh, this was heaven_. He hummed in pleasure, and then remembered with an unpleasant jolt that he was not alone. His eyes flew open again, preparing a defensive glare.

America was watching him, but there was no mockery in his soft, pleased smile. "Good?"

England felt himself flush. "It will do," he snapped with mock irritation.

America chuckled. "I wish I knew what you taste when you drink that stuff," he said, his grin turning almost wistful. "It's just dry leaves and sticks in water to me."

England sniffed his displeasure, too absorbed in comforting warmth to summon a truly stern glare. "So much the better, I'm coming to realize." He leaned in for another sip and then froze, cup almost to his lips, as a distant tone cut through the air.

America's eyes met his, widening as the note slid and held.

England set the cup aside carefully and got to his feet, letting the sound wash over him. He took a deep breath, held it for a count as he stretched his arms behind him, and then released it with a heavy sigh. "It's time," he said quietly. "They're coming."

America's eyes had gone dark and serious. "Now what?"

_Ah. That was the question._ England sank back onto his cot, gesturing to the chair beside it. "You wanted to stay," he said, flinching as anxiety gave the words a sharper edge than he'd intended. "So stay."

Something settled in America's expression, the line of his shoulders firming as if he'd been issued a challenge. He crossed the room and sat stiffly, fixing his full attention on the older nation. The fierce, utterly determined look on the boy's young face made England's lips quirk again in spite of himself. He attempted an apologetic smile, trying to soften his previous words. "It's not as dire as all that. Distract me. Tell me what's been happening in Washington."

America tensed visibly, sensing the return of dangerous ground, and England kicked himself for the choice of subject. _Ah well. It wasn't something they could dance around forever._ He gathered his teacup again, cupping the comforting warm china between both hands. He took a slow, deliberate sip as America studied the brickwork along the far wall.

"Not much," he said stiffly.

"No?" England smiled, letting his tone warm with it. "I've been following this election of yours with interest."

England watched America's face, secretly pleased when he relaxed enough to flash him an uncomfortable grimace. "Come on, England. You know better than to listen to campaign rhetoric." There was something faintly urgent in his eyes, as if he were desperate for the other nation to see the truth of it. "Whatever Roosevelt's got to say to stay in Washington, you know he's going to say it, and right now non-involvement's the magic word." He frowned down at the bricks under his feet. "Murrow's doing his damnedest, that _London Can Take It_ film is making the rounds, but it just…" He made a sharp, exasperated noise. "It takes time."

_A dangerously limited resource, _England thought darkly_. _As if to punctuate the thought, a bolt of searing agony ripped through his chest. He bit down hard on a gasp, glancing over quickly to be sure America hadn't caught his unconscious flinch. The night had begun in earnest.

America's gaze was distant, a faintly rueful smile on his face. "To top it all off," he continued, "it's like the papers can't string more than two words together without some bastard getting on his high horse about the Rape of Belgium."

The sharp, hot edge of the impact had begun to ease, but England felt himself stiffen again at the boy's words. America glanced at him, smile vanishing as he finally took in the expression on England's face. Alarm flared in his eyes.

"I didn't mean…" America began. He caught himself, tried again. "Listen, they remember." He leaned in, trying to catch England's eyes with his own. "They just don't remember enough. They remember _what_ without remembering _why_."

England released a slow breath as he nodded, the burn in his chest easing into a familiar throb. "Human lives."

"Selective memory," America corrected with a sharp look. "Not so different from us."

England caught the unspoken accusation and closed his eyes against it. "Some things are best forgotten," he murmured.

America didn't respond. After a moment of heavy silence, England looked back to find the boy watching him, his eyes unusually serious. "I'd rather remember everything, the good and the bad, than risk only remembering the wrong one," he said quietly.

England felt an old ache bloom to life, a dull sensation that throbbed beneath the burn of London under siege. No matter how he turned the words over in his head, it was clear America had abandoned the pretense of discussing Belgium entirely. He gathered himself quickly, schooling his expression as if he'd failed to grasp the boy's meaning. He doubted America would be fooled, but he'd be damned if he'd be drawn into this now.

"Yet that's exactly the point of propaganda," he replied calmly. "If this works—and we have no choice but to have faith that it will—we'll have your people's selective memory to thank for it." He steeled himself against the flash of disappointment in the other nation's look, holding his own gaze steady, expression open and carefully neutral. Finally, the boy's shoulders sank.

"Guess we'll have to wait and see," America said.

England noted his tone, quickly pushing it to the back of his mind to be filed with the rest. _Later. _He would think about this later when he was blissfully alone again, free from scrutiny and consequence and the sharp, demanding hurt in the boy's eyes. He couldn't repress a quick flash at the thought, and something in his chest squeezed tight. _Later_, he repeated fiercely.

He cast about desperately for a safer subject. "I read recently that your Mr. Tesla had a new proposal about how to deal with airstrikes. Aircraft in general, actually, if I'm not mistaken."

America blinked and raised his head, brightening as if a switch had been thrown. England held back a smile of his own, secretly indulging himself in a brief surge of amused fondness. _The simplicity of youth, or natural resilience? _ He wondered, the boy's rapidly building excitement warming him from the inside. _Perhaps a bit of both._ He supposed it didn't matter. The miserable young nation of a moment earlier might as well have never been. America launched into an explanation, gesturing eagerly as he began to elaborate on the details. England took the opportunity to simply watch him. After spending so much time with his twin, it was slightly unsettling to see the boy in his element. Every motion seemed odd; unnaturally sure, confident and powerful. _And yet._ England studied the younger nation more closely, trying to pinpoint an elusive _something_ he could sense just outside his conscious grasp. There was an even older familiarity in this burst of unguarded enthusiasm, the eager blue flash in his eyes. The stray thought seized him before he was fully aware what it was._ I've missed you. _

England pushed the thought aside firmly, and then realized with a start that the room had fallen silent. America was beaming at him, hopeful and expectant. He stared back. After a moment, the boy's smile faltered. "I thought you'd be more pleased to hear that."

"No, I am", England assured him quickly. "I am." Suspicion flickered in America's eyes, and England felt his face flush with heat as the boy leaned closer. _Too warm_, he realized in a dizzy rush, _he was_ _far too warm_. He waved the young nation away and lifted a hand toward the basin. "Compress," he murmured.

America pulled back in surprise, glancing quickly at the ceiling as if he could see through it to the city beyond. "Oh," he stuttered. "Oh. I didn't know it had…" He let the sentence hang unfinished, moving quickly to soak and wring the towel before placing it carefully on his forehead. England inhaled sharply as the cloth settled like ice against his skin. The boy's eyes continued to search his, dark with concern. "Better?"

England released a slow breath. "Better." Relief had been immediate, but his mind still felt increasingly foggy and sluggish. The ground shuddered again, chased by a white hot flare of pain. This time he knew he was being watched too closely for the flinch to pass unnoticed, and he closed his eyes against it, unwilling to see America's reaction to the moment of weakness. A long moment passed in silence as England quietly pulled himself together, bracing himself to meet the other nation's gaze, to brush off the ebbing burn. Then he felt cool fingers wrapping gently, impossibly, around his own.

England froze, pain temporarily forgotten as everything narrowed to the feel of America's hand on his.

For a few long moments he simply breathed, his mind utterly blank.

_…how long had it been?_

England filtered quickly through memories, knowing he could only conjure much smaller hands, a softer touch. Ever since _then_—in all the years between—they'd shared an unspoken agreement, an understanding that a certain degree of distance had been both the price and prize of independence. America had always been an intensely tactile nation: coercing, cajoling, teasing with what seemed, at least on the surface, to be utterly heedless familiarity. Yet he'd always remained careful—_oh so careful_—with England. Decades had passed without either of them crossing that invisible line, even under the pretense of accident. England wondered at that for a dizzy moment, considered how much effort must have actually been required to give the effect of careless, accidental adherence to such an absolute rule.

He opened his eyes. America had turned away nearly as far as he could, his expression hidden as he studied the floor at the foot of the cot, but he could see the tips of his ears were red. A cautious, warm ache spread through England's chest. Before he could think better of it, he shifted to allow his fingers to curl around the boy's own, applying pressure in a light squeeze. America stayed silent, but his shoulders sagged with the release of a shaky breath. The hand in his twitched, then flexed gently, returning the gesture.

England couldn't bring himself to speak, afraid to do anything that might break the fragile spell. Then a second impact wrenched a quick gasp from his throat. America turned instantly, his face an open display of helpless distress.

"I'm all right," England assured him quickly. The world blurred a bit more, a thick haze falling between him and the other nation, and he was almost grateful for it. The vague, unreal feeling made it easier, cushioning him not only from the pain, but the anxiety he knew he ought to be feeling. "Honestly, I'm all right."

"I don't know why it hurts," he murmured, his own voice starting to sound distant in his ears. "Buildings are demolished every day. Old makes way for the new, and I don't feel a thing. It must…" He paused, his thoughts sliding thick and slow, "It must have something to do with the people. Their faith in what we represent, what we _are_. Their belief that what they've built will endure. _Doubt_." He seized on the idea with sudden conviction, struggling to raise himself on an arm so he could press the point. His chest still burned, and suddenly it felt vitally important that America understand, that he see the threat for what it was, if a day ever came when he could no longer stand between the boy and the darkness. "_Fear._ That's the war he's waging now. That's what's under siege."

America released England's hand to ease him back into position, his mouth set in a grim line. "I don't have an explanation for you," he countered, "but I know your people. _You_ know your people. London could be rubble and they'd set out a tea service in the ruins at 3:15 sharp. Made of sterner stuff than brick and mortar, every damn one of them." His eyes met England's and softened slightly. "Can't imagine where they get it."

England relented beneath the pressure on his shoulders, fevered desperation fading in a surge of weariness. "Sterner stuff," he repeated softly. "Yes. I dare say they are."_ An unfortunate turn of phrase, that_. He wondered distantly how much America remembered of his old lessons, whether he ever looked at England and thought of Rome. He supposed he couldn't be blamed if he did. England had done so often enough himself these past weeks. The room tilted again, and he closed his eyes.

_All thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, shrunk to this little measure…_

He flinched reflexively, pushing the thought aside, trying to focus. It was hardly the time to think of such things: the consequences of ambition, the passing of empires. Something in his expression must have betrayed him, and the warm pressure on his hand returned, squeezing gently. His gaze slid until it found America's face. The boy's eyes burned back into his, the blue intense.

"Whatever you're thinking," he said quietly, "don't."

England huffed a soft laugh, and turned back to watch the ceiling blur and shift. Then the world slipped abruptly sideways, and fell away beneath him.


	6. Chapter 6

"England." America's grip closed tighter on the hand in his. "_England_."

The older nation's eyes remained distant, fixed on something America couldn't see. A faint sheen of sweat glistened at his temples, highlighting the flush of his skin, and America bit back a curse as he stripped the cloth from his forehead. The damp fabric was already bathwater hot to the touch. God fucking damn it, he should have noticed. He should have been paying closer attention.

England made a small noise as he pressed a fresh cloth to his skin, his lips moving soundlessly. America leaned in, trying to catch the words, but there was no voice behind them. Then the older nation gave a sudden harsh gasp.

"_Lombard…_"

_Ah_. America felt his insides twist as comprehension dawned. He moved into England's line of sight, searching his face for a hint of recognition. The older nation's eyes were unguarded, his expression anxious and desperate. It was so exposed, so unlike England, that he almost had to turn away. England's gaze caught at his for a moment, green flashing bright and frantic. "Get word to James. Bloodworth is a fool." His hand clutched America's in a quick spasm. "Are you listening, boy? James must hear of this."

America felt something working its way up his throat and fought it back down. It might have been laughter—the situation was absurd enough—but his throat was so full and tight he couldn't be certain what would actually come out. He curled his free hand into a fist, letting the sharp bite of nails in his palm ground him.

"Yes," he agreed. "James. He's on the way, England. He's coming."

The older nation turned away with a low groan, his tension easing slightly. His gaze continued to dart around the room, following the action of an invisible scene. Another tremor, distant this time, rumbled through the earth, and he arched with a ragged gasp. America held the hand in his more tightly, stroking his thumb across the base of England's palm.

"It's all right," he said, his voice low and fierce. "This'll be over soon. You'll be all right."

England sagged. His eyes fluttered, scanning the room hazily before finding and locking on America's. "_Alfred_."

America flinched in surprise, but held his gaze. The older nation's eyes were dim, but lucid. "I'm so tired," England murmured. The tightness in America's chest clenched impossibly. "So tired, Alfred…"

The thunder of a close impact trembled through the earth, shaking a fine shower of dust from the ceiling. England made a quiet, hopeless sound, his eyes turning distant and unfocused once more. America felt something in him give a final, violent twist, and then snap.

"I know," he choked out in a rush. "Arthur, I know. I'm here."

Before he could question what he was doing, America had scrambled onto the cot to gather England's thin frame to himself, pulling the older nation's back flush against his chest. Something had given way, and he found he couldn't stop the desperate flow of words pouring from his mouth. _ I know, oh I know. Arthur I'm here and I'm sorry- _England's head rolled senselessly into the crook of his neck, and America bent to bury his nose in the scent of his hair. Through the dust and concrete, it was still there, the smell he'd known ever since he could remember: rain washed streets and green living things, the scent of England. He breathed deeply as his eyes burned.

The ground thrummed again and drew a sharp hiss from England. The older nation twisted in his arms, scrabbling at his shirt with fingers suddenly clumsy with desperation. America pushed his hands aside as gently as he could, undoing buttons to reveal red hot welts rising over the nation's heart, angry and sharp against his pale chest. America sucked in a breath of his own. He reached for the second cloth, dampening it carefully before pressing it to the tortured skin. England made a small choking sound of relief, and America bit down hard. Something mad and desperate began to surge in him. This had to end. It had to end. He would walk to Berlin himself. He would tear into Ludwig with his bare hands. Let them try to stop him. Let anyone. He would see them beg, broken and bleeding...

Another gasp from England returned America to himself. He released unconscious fists and drew the other nation closer, gently stroking the exposed skin of his arms. England's profile was faint in the dim light, his eyes half open but unseeing, pinpoint pupils almost drowned in a sea of green. A thin luster of sweat coated his skin, lighting the straight line of his nose, the curve of his lips. America released a quick breath as the cold rage of only a moment earlier evaporated beneath a flood of warmth.

_Beautiful. He was so beautiful._

The rumble of another strike ripped a low, urgent moan from England, and America looked away quickly, helpless to fight the heat that the sound released low and deep in him. He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw and hating himself as it begin to lick a slow, inexorable path down his spine. The earth thrummed again. England was silent this time, but his body tensed, coiling ever more tightly, burying his face in the hollow of America's neck. Before he could think, America leaned into the touch, his cheek flush against the burning skin of the other nation's forehead.

_Arthur_.

His heartbeat began to pulse thick and loud in his ears, and he turned his head another fraction to press his lips, gently, to England's temple. The skin there was achingly delicate, prickling with heat, and for a dizzy moment America felt as if he were drinking in the warmth, letting it pour down his throat to pool, molten, in his stomach. His thoughts spun.

"Arthur." The word was barely a whisper, lips brushing against fiery skin. _Love you. Arthur._ England gave a small sigh and America pulled away slightly, licking salt from his lips. _Oh love you, Arthur, love you. Love you_. His mind felt thick and slow, the world narrowing, focusing until everything was the feel of England's body against his own, the flushed skin under his fingers. He heard, distantly, what might have been a quiet moan. He wasn't certain which of them had made it, wasn't certain it mattered, because his heartbeat was deafening now and the taste on his tongue was Arthur—_Arthur_—and there was only room for the thought _more_.

A flinch and a sharp gasp from England pierced the thickening fog in America's head and he stilled instantly, the wrongness and danger of the situation snapping back into immediate focus. _Jesus. Oh Jesus, fuck._ He released England with a flinch. _Get a hold of yourself._ He had lived with this ache for decades now, longer, if he dared to be honest with himself. But _hope_... hope was new and so very fragile. He couldn't risk a moment of lucidity stealing everything from him. Not now.

England's brow had begun to furrow at the loss of contact, his body still clenched and curled in distress. America fumbled desperately in his oldest memories, thinking back to scraped knees and gentle hands. _The song. _ _England's song. How did it go?_

_Alas my love you do me wrong to cast me off discourteously, _

_And I have loved you oh so long delighting in thy company…_

America pulled England back into a careful embrace and began to hum, soft and deep, watching as tension eased from his face and his breathing slowed. Still humming, America let his head fall back to rest against the wall, closing his eyes against the tightness in his throat that threatened to choke the melody.

He had lost track of the number of times he'd repeated the single verse he knew, the feel of England's thin frame against his chest almost weightless and natural, when a distant wail filtered through the haze of his thoughts. The second siren. All clear. The other nation's breathing had been slow and steady for some time, the skin beneath his hands unusually warm but not burning. America gingerly lifted the damp cloth over his heart, wincing at the charred flesh beneath. That would need attention. He disentangled himself carefully, ignoring the sharp ache that flared at England's sleepy protest.

Once the burn had been properly dressed and bandaged, America straightened uncertainly. He let his mind loop through a series of scenarios in which England woke to find America sharing his cot, testing one excuse, and then another. Finally he gave a soft, wry laugh. None of them ended well. He dropped into a crouch, bringing himself level with England. His sleeping expression was decidedly grumpy, his earlier displeasure at being disturbed still evident in his drawn brow and faint frown. America hesitated, and then placed a careful finger on the crease between his thick brows. England gave a low warning grumble, but he persisted, soothing the spot with gentle, circular pressure. America felt a fond smile spread across his face as the growl trailed off into a soft sigh. He rocked back on his heels then, trying to burn England's peaceful expression to memory.

_Good night, Arthur_.

America pulled himself into the chair, leaned back and began to count bricks, keeping his mind utterly, carefully blank until his eyes drifted shut and sleep finally took him.


	7. Chapter 7

He woke to the sound of fabric snapping taut. England was standing a few paces away, his back turned as he tugged smartly at the sleeves of his uniform, brushing a quick hand down the front to smooth any remaining creases from being folded overnight. America watched his crisp, efficient movements for as long as he dared, and then gave an exaggerated yawn. He didn't bother to hide his grin as England flinched and spun to face him.

"Mornin'."

"Ah." England faltered for a moment. "Yes. Good morning. I didn't mean to wake you. It's still the middle of night your time, isn't it?"

America stretched hard against stiff muscles, contracting at the end with an explosive sigh. "It's fine," he said, springing to his feet. "I'm good to go."

England nodded uncertainly and gestured at his cot. "You could always…"

He left the sentence unfinished as America shook his head quickly. _Too quickly_, he amended, noting the odd look that flickered over England's face. _Shit._ He pushed the proposal to the back of his mind before his imagination could fully seize on the idea of wrapping himself in blankets that smelled of England. _They might still be slightly warm, _came a treacherous thought. He could feel his cheeks beginning to burn. _Shit. Yes. Time to go._

England cleared his throat. "Thank you." He gestured to his chest with a slight flush. "For this. I hope last night wasn't too unpleasant."

America released a breath, grateful for the change of topic. "Not at all." He leaned against the desk and doffed an invisible top hat. "You acquitted yourself admirably, sir."

England gave a short huff of surprise.

"No?" America shrugged, flashing a grin. "I thought you'd like that."

"A bit florid for you, isn't it?"

"What can I say? Must be the company I keep."

"_Really_." England's snort turned into a full chuckle. "To think it took a mere 300 years. God help us all."

America gave a cheerful shrug. "Roll a pig in enough mud, and some of it's gotta stick."

"Ah." England leveled a half-lidded look at him. "Yes. There's the charming rhetoric I've come to expect." He turned away, collecting and returning various items to their rightful place. "I suppose you'll be returning to Washington today."

It was a statement, not a question, and America turned the words over in his mind for a moment, testing them for a hint of relief or regret. There was little to read. He kept his own tone neutral. "That's the plan. Elections to prepare for, work to be done."

"Yes, I imagine we both have that cut out for us." England spared him a quick glance over his shoulder. "You, selling this bloody war. Me, ensuring there's still one to fight by the time your people make up their minds."

America's hands tightened reflexively around the edge of the table. He released it quickly, digging his nails into his palm instead.

"I'll be back soon." He hoped his voice was steady.

"I know lad. I know. Just—" There was the barest hint of a pause before England continued, his tone as light as ever. "Be quick about it, would you?"

The nation's back was still to him, his face hidden as he stacked a set of documents and placed them carefully in a worn leather briefcase.

America felt his smile falter, but propped it back up as England closed the case with a snap and turned to join him. He spread his arms theatrically and forced the smile into a booming laugh.

"Can't let you hog all the glory, old man." He stood and threw an arm around the England's shoulders. "Just promise you'll leave enough fight in Ludwig to let me go a round or two with him." He leaned in and winked. "I figure I owe him a little something for the terrible sleep I got last night."

England seemed to color slightly under the weight of America's arm, then quickly shrugged it off with an irritated snort. "Right." He turned on his heel to start down the passage to the surface. "Well then. Let's get to it."

Unseen, America let his smile drop as he watched the other nation's receding figure.

"Let's," he agreed softly.

And followed.


End file.
